


...Up

by Konstantya



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Angst, Canon - Original Game, Character Study, Drama, Experimental Style, F/M, Gen, Pre-Original Game, Songfic, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-24
Updated: 2006-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9481646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Konstantya/pseuds/Konstantya
Summary: He never thought himself a romantic, and certainly not a hopeless one.  And maybe his dreams began long before the nightmares...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published (on FF.net) on January 24, 2006. Cross-posted here on January 27, 2017.

 

_In my head I found you there and_  
_Running around and following me_  
_But you don't dare…_

 

She says her name is Lucrecia, and he can tell she doesn't fit—not quite. Not quite beautiful, but a bit too pretty for her chosen field. With a name echoing of folklore and fairytales, not test tubes and genetics.

But she is devoted to her work. Not like the other one, exactly, but enough to almost, almost qualify as a workaholic. And it's simply the two of them at the same time in the morning, and if he were someone else, he might find the silence to be bothersome.

Judging by the array of instruments she's currently using, it seems unlikely that she will finish very soon, and she starts a little guiltily when she catches him suppressing a yawn. But he pours himself another cup of coffee and settles down into the chair again, straight-backed, and continues the cleaning of his gun, while a loaded spare rests under his jacket, just in case. And whether because of the way he casually goes about his silent task, or because she can tell he's getting tired, as she is, she tells him that he can go up to bed if he'd like. But he shakes his head no with understated honor and says this is his job. And she blooms a little genuine smile with tired hazel eyes and silently nods at the gentleman who does very ungentlemanly things for a living.

 

_But I find that I have now_  
_More than I ever wanted to…_

 

It's a bright but chilly early afternoon when they decide to end the workday short. And he's about to retire to his room to catch up on his sleep if he can, but she catches him in the front hall, a wool coat in place of her lab coat, and asks just a _little_ shyly if he would maybe like to join her for coffee in town.

Turks did not get close to many people outside their own comrades, and though his mattress is calling, her brave, amiable little smile is calling louder. And while he knows she knows what his profession normally entails—a job so dirty, even the company that employs him euphemizes it—there's something in her expression he can't bring himself to pass up: an offer of friendship.

 

_So maybe Thomas Jefferson wasn't born in your backyard_  
_Like you have said and…_

 

There's two steaming mugs between them when he deigns to remove his gloves, and her analytic interest is peaked when she sees how smooth his palms are in comparison to his fingertips. And a couple minutes of a silence and a one-sided embarrassment passes before she gives in and asks suddenly if he's ever had his palm read. And he looks at her for a moment, and at the slight blush that's coloring her cheeks and the bridge of her nose like the clouds sometimes color the sky at sunset, and he shakes his head no, a little amused, and wonders when he started thinking in purple prose.

Encouraged by the hidden warmth she can see buried in his eyes, she bravely asks if he wouldn't mind, as she knows a little about the practice herself. And he raises his eyebrows and says he's surprised a woman of such intense science would indulge in such superstition, but she laughs and says that, in a way, superstition is kind of what science is all about, that what is science now was once mystic and magic—smoke without mirrors.

And he pauses and decides to humor her and gives her his left hand, surprised when the touch of the tip of her index finger sends an unfamiliar but pleasant buzz up his arm and down his spine. His head line is straight, and his heart line is incredibly defined, and there's a break in his life line, maybe a little less than an inch in, but she says it's long, longer than most, which is unexpected, considering his profession. She says the Fates must be smiling on him, and when she beams a mortal reflection of it at him—all bright, work-fatigued eyes lined with faded goggle marks, and lips that are a bit too wide—for a traitorous moment, he believes it.

Exceptions to the rule exist everywhere, she says. But Fate never smiled on a Turk.

 

_Maybe I'm just the horizon you run to when_  
_He has left…you there…_

 

It's past sunset, but Nibelheim is very much awake, the day and evening blessed with remarkably mild weather, and the square is bustling with music and happy, clumsy and graceful couples and she comes down the stairs and into the hall, out of her work clothes and lab coat and into a casual summer dress. When she finds him in the kitchen with half a sandwich in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other and asks if he would like to go with her, he's more than a little surprised, because while her hair is still up, it's not messy or mousey in the least, and she's wearing a little bit of makeup and admittedly looks beautiful when she wants to.

And though she asks, he can tell that he doesn't have much choice in the matter, and he mentions that it's rather late to join the festivities _now,_ because they _have_ been going on all day. And she smiles a little frown and murmurs something about her colleague and a failed persuasion and about work and research and not having the time or the desire to, but before either of them can have the time to dwell on it, her hand spontaneously grabs his arm and begins steering him toward the door, convincing him every step of the way that he needs to get out and have fun, too, otherwise he'll turn fifty before he hits thirty.

 

_You are here, in my head and_  
_Running around and calling me:_  
_"Come back—I'll show you the roses_  
_That brush off the snow,_  
_And open their petals again and again."_

 

And the taverns and cafes and restaurants both love and hate the crowds and the business they bring, and he honestly doesn't like all the people and feels out of place, but how could he feel out of place with her enthusiasm next to him?

And the night breezes by in a strangely content, almost euphoric blur of lanterns and soft light and specialty drinks with names too long to be practical and ice cream cones and local artists and stands that are still selling wares and guitars and drums and an occasional sappy love song and the town seems like it will never get to sleep tonight.

 

_And you know that apple green ice cream can melt in your hands_  
_I can't, so…_

 

And maybe the little bit of wine went to her head and maybe went to his head too, but she's adamant about dancing, though it turns out he's more graceful at the matter than she, and half the time she can't make her feet go in the right place and almost trips more than once. Her cheeks are as bright as the punch they just drank, but she can't help but laugh at herself and her clumsiness, and his rare smile which is getting more common stretches his mouth and he realizes that she's not just beautiful, but _beautiful_. She's beautiful mousey hair and beautiful wide smile and beautiful life, and he's falling, falling…falling…

(And it isn't the fall that kills…)

 

_I held your hand at the fair_  
_And even forgot what time it was…_

 

And she's half-leaning on him on the walk back to the mansion, and her shoes are in her hand and his jacket is over his shoulder and his hair is just as mussed as hers. And he's inexplicably disappointed with the end of the night that was more like a dream, and he's acutely surprised with himself when they finally return and discover just how late it truly is.

 

_And even Thomas Jefferson wasn't born in your backyard_  
_Like you have said and_  
_Maybe I'm just the horizon you run to when_  
_He has left…you—_

 

It's late at night after a grueling day of work and the weather is warm when he finds her outside, a light bathrobe over her pajamas and a pair of binoculars aimed toward the sky. She says she can't sleep and stargazing always seems to help, and would he like to see the Phoenix Wing Nebula? She points it out, the star at the top of the bow of Braiches, the Archer, except it isn't really a star, and looking closely without even a telescope, it isn't a point of light but a smudge of it instead.

His vision is good enough that he can distinguish it without the lenses, so he returns them back to her, and she tries to find the Queen's Belt, and the night breeze is pulling at her hair which is down for once and he's falling, falling, falling faster and faster (terminal velocity, here he comes) but he can't be frightened because he can't see the ground. Just indigo dreams and cloudy white streams and the bittersweet exhilaration of things he never cared enough to see and never knew were there to see.

And she smiles triumphantly when she finds the constellation, and lowers the binoculars to see it with the naked eye, and her head is tilted up at just the right angle toward the luminous, dark night sky…

And he's leaning down to kiss her, and her lips are softer than he ever could have imagined, and one hand is pressed into her lower back, and the fingers of the other are whispering over her skin, running through her hair that smells like one of the locals flowers. And her arms are around his neck, practically hanging from his significantly taller frame, and her body relaxes into him, and their kiss is deepening on the outskirts of that little mountain town, and her hands are now feeling for the inside of his jacket, and her arms are wrapping around his back and shoulders, and she's pressed so closely to him, and he knows he'll never let this heaven go, and—

He snaps back to reality and he's staring at her in that disconcerting way that is far different and far more haunted than how he has ever appeared before. And it hits midnight and the spell is broken, and she laughs a little, very little, to lighten the mood, and asks him with concern and worry if anything is wrong. And, embarrassed and even a little guilty with his train of thoughts, he drops his eyes from her, to the ground, then back to the sky, because that's where he was _supposed_ to be looking.

 

_—And me here, alone on the floor_  
_You're counting my feathers as the bells toll…_

 

Just…thinking, that's all.

Just thinking, he says.

 

_You see the bow and the belt_  
_And the girl from the south_  
_All favorites of mine_  
_You know them all well…_

 

But she soon begins yawning and the night sky is calling and sleep sounds awfully delicious. So he walks her to her room in the watery and sharp glow from distant little lamps and crisp moonlight, and he wants to kiss her, more than anything to kiss her, and his ribs feel just a little bit tighter around his heart and she's warmth and heaven and the sparkling fusion of a sleepy young star but—

He bids her goodnight, and she does the same, and she tactfully doesn't ask about the pounding.

(He knows his heart is louder than the shutting of the door.)

 

_And spring brings fresh little puddles_  
_That makes it all clear…_

 

He doesn't plan for it to happen that day (he doesn't plan anything at all), but it's one of their walks in town that has somehow become common and amiable and not awkward at all that she's trying to go down in history because of her job and he's trying his best to stay out of history because of his job. But something about the day and the atmosphere and the lazy afternoon sun in her smile and he knows he'll die if he waits any more.

And he's muffled anxiety and consciously chilled fire and he whirls his heels to a stop in front of her, and easier than he expects and faster than he would like it comes running out over his lips—

He loves her.

The seconds turn into hours and her mouth is trying to work but her throat isn't cooperating, and she's stunned silence and painful incomprehension and asks him why, why—why is he doing this and Vincent don't do this. But he isn't a romantic and he's not good with words and he takes her hands as his mouth tries to aptly explain. It all sounds so simple in his head and he could do something else— _any_ thing else—and she could take her science elsewhere and they could both get out of here if she would only say…

But it isn't that simple and he wishes it was and his heart is violently lost when the tears in her throat say she's pregnant, pregnant, pregnant, as her hands rip out of his and her feet are running away with the clicks of her heels and all he can do is reach for her. Just futilely reach.

And with a heavy ache of shock that somehow hurts more than any injury his job has given him before, he's distantly searching the town, trying to find her so he can try to explain (explain what?) when he sees her across the square, tense frame relaxed and her arms around another pair of shoulders. And he isn't a Turk, and he doesn't wear a navy blue suit, but instead a white coat just about the same as hers, and no doubt completely understands and more when she begins her adorable rambles about chemical structures and DNA.

And the sharp pang of jealousy cools in his chest when he realized it's his fault for not noticing sooner. With all his attentiveness that comes from and with his job, he should have noticed sooner.

And the never-there fairytale shatters in his hand and reality is ice-cold, but he stands tall as he sinks to the bottom, and sees that she's happy, and tells himself he won't mind.

As long as she's happy, he will not mind.

 

_Makes it all…_

 

Despite himself, at the beginning of the final trimester, he minds very much, but he is the _Turk_ (killer! thief! murderer!) and after all, they are both _scientists,_ and why should his thoughts matter, because they'll just do it anyway…

Anxiety and intuition sound alarms in his head, but the argument is a circular one and while she uncomfortably insists there are no risks, she doesn't look happy—not quite—and he tries to not let it get to him—not quite. She doesn't love him and it isn't his place.

Not quite.

And the maid finds her on the floor that day, and she's pale fever and delirious worry and what a terrible time for a difficult labor. And he's pacing his soles away on the path outside, the hours long, and the afternoon fades to night and he wishes he had picked up smoking earlier in his life because he could really use something to calm his nerves right now.

And then things get quieter and relief is peeking around the corner with the cries of a confused newborn, and the maid comes to the door with the silver-haired, green-eyed bundle (and he's beautiful, yes, but natural, no) and the ground drops out when he sees her face. The cold autumn breeze blows the dark fallen leaves in a tattered dirge and she tells him she's dead—dead—dead, and if he ever had the urge to shoot the messenger—his fingers itching toward his gun in shock—now is it.

And his mind is a blur of chaos and how he doesn't know but he's skimming down the stairs and he's saying things he can't remember which turns to shouting he can't remember and he's too upset to see if _he's_ upset and he says he _loved! loved! loves!_ her and the certain cock of a pistol is a remarkably effective way to shut someone up—!

 

_Hey…do you know…?_

 

And his morbid sense of humor wants to laugh, because it's so ironic—so ridiculously, horrifically, stupidly ironic—because he's a pencil-necked _scientist_ (cold chemicals and glassware, not cold steel and gunpowder) and his eyes are black coal and sharp diamond

—Allotropes of carbon…wouldn't you be surprised, Lucrecia—

but his brow is sweating and his hand is shaking and does becoming a father affect every man like this? But the gun is spasmodically fired by a first-time trigger-finger and he has half a mind to tell him that he's far too jumpy and unsure in his certainty and he'd never make a truly good killer so _ha!_ he's better than him in _some_ respect but he's falling falling falling and

STOPS.

The ground is far harder and far colder than he ever thought.

And he's bleeding on the floor, in drops and puddles and pools, more than he ever has before and more than it seems he _should_ in a numbly pained shock, and two floors above she's done the same, too weary to continue on, and he can sympathize. It's tempting and he's slipping…

Slipping…

This is the romantic tragedy that poets live to write about—but the creative idiots should really try _dying_ one, because it isn't nearly what it's cracked up to be—like a couple of star-crossed lovers, except they weren't lovers, not really, not even a little, except in rusty hopes and dusty dreams and what a time for romantic notions and self-deprecation.

Whatever happened to his priorities, the _job?_

His fault—if he hadn't turned out to be a hopelessly romantic fool beneath years of cold training and missions and the Department of Manufacturing in Administrative Research…

 

_Hey…do you know…_  
_What this is doing to me?_

 

And Hojo's spiteful because for all his intelligence he lacks too much common sense to know that while she cared for him, she _cared_ for _him_. And in her own way (that will make the girl who will be all skinny fire and teenage brimstone imitate gagging with her finger down her throat, and will make the serene smiling angel scratch her head and twist her mouth in confusion, and will make the young woman who will feel more than she can ever say darkly mutter something about it being an embarrassment to her gender) she _loved_ him.

But it doesn't matter, because once he's disarmed and weak from blood loss and clamped down with his heart buzzing in his head and his stomach churning at his toes, it doesn't matter that she loved him, it doesn't matter that he can occasionally hear an infant wailing, it doesn't matter that his hand was shaking because he'd never fired a gun because guns are not what his doctorate is for.

 

_Oh, here…_

 

And no, he isn't a killer, he's a scientist (cold chemicals, cold steel, cold glassware) and he doesn't kill—he pokes and prods and weaves hypotheses and measures data and cuts off conclusions and _experiments_.

Cuts off…severs…

And he can't move and can't faint. He's bleeding and screaming and begging, and his throat runs raw and bleeds even more, and why won't he die already?

And Hojo isn't cringing, nor faltering, nor gleeful, nor smiling, nor laughing. He's wearing earplugs and writing against a clipboard and keeps sighing and idly complaining about the weather and in the same sentence could he please refrain from getting his blood on the paperwork?

Strange, he thinks during a pathetic excuse for a rest—the lab table too cold and too stainless steel and his left arm too heavy, and he almost, almost, almost chuckles despite himself and his hazy hurricane-hit mind when he sees the shallow bronze lifeline is no longer broken—how people praise professional doctors and condemn professional killers. (And the general populace thinks being a Turk is a depraved career…)

 

_Here…_

 

And he doesn't know how much time has passed and while his conscious refuses to remember things, his subconscious isn't on his side in this matter, and has the courtesy to show and tell him what he missed. Where dreams turn into nightmares and that little white spark of fusion in a star turns to harsh fluorescence in a ceiling, then begins to turn red, then black. And he doesn't have a voice left to scream with, but he screams anyway because it hurts and hurts and _hurts_. Until the only thing he knows, only thing he _ever_ knew, is pain—

(But no! Bright eyes and faded goggle marks and a wide smile…

And all his fault. He could have prevented it, could have whisked her away and kept her until it was all over, and she would have yelled and hated him, but she would be alive, and her baby would be fine and not some _experiment_. Or he could have been ruthless and just shot her twice—one bullet in the head, one bullet in the womb—and it would have been crude, but effective, but he's sure killing the woman he loved and still loves is a sin not even a Turk could blue-suit-and-tie his way out of.

But what did it matter if he would be damned for it? He was damned anyway.

Fate never smiled on a Turk.)

—And he's so tired, too tired. Too tired to fight, too tired for revenge, too tired to feel…

 

_Here…_

 

And then there's the silence.

The unbearably loud, suffocating, screaming silence.

And _they_ come a-tap-tap-tapping and misting through the door. One and then another and another and the other, and they're playing charades in the back of his mind with no visuals, and he knows the answer to the dangerous game long before the motley group on a hero's suicide mission brushes off the cobwebs of a generation's worth of years:

Bro-ken.

(He wonders what his priorities are…)

And what about the son who is younger than him yet older than him? And he tries to take things with apocalyptic seriousness but it's hard to reconcile the hard, flawless face of a murdering madman with a baby's cries for help and deliverance from a mother who was dead and a father who cared in the wrong way and an anything-but-innocent bystander the infant never knew, but echoed his screams with the maturity of a man…

It's hard, and everything is a generation too modern, and while he has changed, he hasn't changed at all.

Shipwrecked on a surreal reality so jagged it tore him apart, and he's wading through the pitch-dark shadow-remains of false hopes—

(A ghost? Science and superstition…)

—and false dreams, that always end in disappointment. In death.

 _Every_ thing, he knows. Death. (Except him, the demons assure him, when one of them bounds forth to save his skin, to save their own, and shoves _him_ to the back of his mind…)

 

_Here, in my head._

 

And he's fallen.

Fallen.

Fallen.

So that means…

(False hopes?)

The only way left to go is…

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So. Stream-of-consciousness like whoa.
> 
> I've actually never been a fan of writing stream-of-consciousness (though I _do_ like reading it) and have no idea where the form came from, but once I had a couple random lines and paragraphs, I just ended up running with it. Looking back, I guess what I really wanted to do was to capture Vincent's situation in a new—apparently chaotic, downward spiral—way. And for the longest time, this thing ended on a real downer (if you think this is depressing now…well, it could be worse). I'm quite sure I'm not exaggerating when I say that this is the most mentally exhausting piece I've written.


End file.
